


and love too

by notquiteaghost



Series: and love too [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: (not a crossover no supernatural characters here), Croatoan Virus, Fusion, M/M, Post-Apocalyptic, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteaghost/pseuds/notquiteaghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You watch, through the ever-present haze of alcohol, as he stirs the masses into optimism. Starts to convince them that yes, there </em>is<em> life after survival (</em>call 911<em>, you think, </em>tell them I'm having a fantastic time<em>, except there are no emergency services left and your heart </em>is<em> confetti and the information man is dead and you lost your Buddy Wakefield CDs in the last Croat attack).</em></p><p>The world has ended. The government has collapsed. Enjolras, ever the natural-born leader, tries to piece together a community in the ashes. Grantaire follows him, for lack of anything better to do.</p><p>This is probably not how most people fall in love. Enjolras and Grantaire, however, have never been 'most people'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the croatoan virus, for the purposes of this story, is a science experiment gone wrong. it's spread through blood (primarily through biting/clawing), and turns people into rabid killing machines. they're _not_ zombies; their driving force is to spread the virus. they're stronger than the average human, but they're just as easy to kill. it takes just under 10 minutes for the virus to take affect, and then just over an hour for cognitive function to dissipate. 
> 
> this story is entirely the fault of an ill-timed rewatch of episode 5.04 of supernatural, and the comparisions my muse immediately drew between 2014!cas and grantaire. also, this section of dialogue: "you saying my plan is reckless?" "if you don't like 'reckless', i could use 'insouciant', maybe." "are you coming?" "of course."
> 
> title is from 'scheherazade' by richard siken: " _tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. these, our bodies, possessed by light. tell me we'll never get used to it._ "
> 
> i did some house-keeping, because the POV changes were bothering me. anything that isn't grantaire's POV is now [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/783584)
> 
> and, for reference, [here](http://idoubtthereforeimightbe.tumblr.com/post/48940525580) are my fancasts for this 'verse.

He is a dead man, trying to convince the world to spare him through sheer force of will. He will not allow himself to be killed by anything other than his own stubborn self-sacrificing stupidity. He is aiming a gun at his own death sentence and daring to call it's bluff.

He is going to get himself killed.

He's making sure of it.

You watch, through the ever-present haze of alcohol, as he stirs the masses into optimism. Starts to convince them that yes, there _is_ life after survival ( _call 911_ , you think, _tell them I'm having a fantastic time_ , except there are no emergency services left and your heart _is_ confetti and the information man is dead and you lost your Buddy Wakefield CDs in the last Croat attack).

He was born for this, to inject hope where no hope should fit, to convince the dying and the half-dead that there's still something left to live for, to keep on keeping on far past the point of logic and reason. He is far past the point of logic and reason, and he is inviting you to join him, and you are stuck fast in the quicksand of your own wretched cynicism and you will not move, you will not sink further struggling to escape when you are perfectly happy here, you are perfectly happy here, you will not move just because he tells you to.

Because you, to contrast, were born for the flipside, because you two are opposites and that's how it's always been and always is and always will be, even when the world catches fire, even when the world is burning, even when the world is ash and you are ash and even your ash will be opposite to his, somehow. You were born for the thoughtless killing, the midnight patrols, the scavenging, the improvised resources, the tripwire reflexes. You were bored beforehand; now, you are Hades, king of the underworld.

He is saying something about another raid on another ghost town, about volunteers, about the possibility of danger and dying and despair, as if everything isn't just shades of danger at this point, as if anyone can ever fool themselves into believing they're safe ( _what would you do if you were going to die? how did you ever convince yourself you weren't?_ ). You are only half-listening, partly distracted by the way the light is trailing it's fingers through his hair, mostly distracted by the bottle of whiskey you're in danger of letting slip through your fingers and shatter on the floor.

He is staring straight at you. You raise an eyebrow and take another long gulp of alcohol, relishing the way it burns, because everything burns now, there is fire in his eyes and your lungs and at least half of the towns in America, the world is choking on smoke and ash and you haven't had a breath of fresh air in years. You aren't even sure you miss it.

He is still staring at you. You stare back. Several minutes pass. He is still talking. You are still not really listening.

He looks away first.

You are not sure if this counts as a victory.

You are not sure if anything counts as a victory.

There is not life after survival.

There is not life after victory.

You are not sure you want to win.

-

There is a gun in your pocket.

You are not happy to see him.

Him, and his glowing adrenaline brilliance, as if he is a star and you are trapped in the pull of his gravity, and you are going to burn up. You are not happy to see him.

He is going to get himself killed.

He is going to get himself _killed_ , and you could almost swear he seems pleased about it. _Pleased_.

He is the reason you are still alive. He gets so angry when you almost get yourself killed, and yet he's still hell-bent on suicidal self-sacrifice, as if he deserves it and you don't. He tells you that you don't deserve to die, and you honestly can't tell if he means it as a good thing or not. If he means it or not.

You do not deserve a thing. You know this.

He is going to get himself killed. You know this.

You are not happy to see him. He does not know this. He has not noticed.

-

Honestly. Honestly. _Honestly_. 

You want to tell him that honesty is not an infinite resource. That, no matter how many times he says it, it won't change anything. That all repetition does it make the world lose it's meaning.

Honesty is not an infinite resource, and there is only so much you can give him. There is only so much you can take. There is only so much he can take from you; you are not infinite, in this moment you are not infinite, you are never infinite and there are no perks to this and all of the flowers are dead. Stop crying. 

Stop crying.

 _Stop crying_ , you do not have tears to spare, you are wasting water on him, _stop it_. The only infinite resource is the power of his belief, and he does not believe in you. You do not deserve him.

You don't deserve anything. There is a gun in your pocket and a bottle in your hand and a bandage around your leg and you are listening to him convince everyone else of the existence of hope, the persistence of hope, the infinity of hope. You have started to lie to his face.

You have started to lie to his face, to tell him you will die for his cause. You know that's not the point, that's not what he wants to hear, that's as close to honesty as you can get these days. 

That's all you have left to give him.

-

Jehan is dead.

Jehan is dead, Courfeyrac won't stop crying, there is blood all over your hands, someone is screaming for help, and it is too late, Jehan is dead, you hacked the Croat responsible to pieces with Jehan's knife, and Courfeyrac can't stop crying, and there is blood everywhere.

And Jehan is dead. Jehan is dead, Jehan is dead, _Jehan is dead_.

You will bury him beneath the oak tree. Courfeyrac will sleep on his grave until he is bodily dragged away. 

There will be no more impromptu poetry readings over breakfast, no more snatches of phrases scrawled across maps and tables and bottle labels, no more flowers braided through Enjolras' hair when he's sleeping, no more Jehan. Jehan is dead.

There are three long gashes in his chest and his eyes are wide open and his blood is all over your hands and you're going to have to burn this shirt. Courfeyrac will keep his knife and no one will grow any more flowers and another one down, another one bites the dust. This was never going to last.

Already your illusion of hope is crumbling, because Jehan, wonderful Jehan, beautiful Jehan, Jehan is dead.

And Courfeyrac is sobbing, and you are drunk enough for this, you could never be drunk enough for this, you tore the Croat to pieces and it fixed nothing. You will scrub your hands until they're raw and burn your shirt and drink and drink and drink and it will fix nothing. This can never be fixed.

Nothing now can ever come to any good. Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun, Jehan is dead.

Jehan is dead.

Jehan is dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is officially not linear. also, i have officially created my own little universe. probably shouldn't be enjoying this so much.
> 
> (i feel like the tone/language/idiolect of grantaire's narrative isn't entirely consistent. thoughts?)

The beginning can be placed at one of three points.

The first is, naturally, the first time you saw him. Before the world burned, before he learnt to shoot, before guilt and anger got their claws in too deep. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, he was gesturing wildly and shouting something about the rights of the people and you were gone. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, completely head over heels. You never even stood a chance. 

The second is, of course, the world burning. If you wanted to be specific, then you would have to pick the day the Queen of England tore a dozen people to pieces, including her husband, grandson and four world leaders, because that, it is now widely acknowledged, was the day the world collectively resigned itself to ash.

The third, finally, is your first kiss. Which, of course, implies a certain level of romance. There was no romance. You were only slightly less drunk than usual, he was bleeding sluggishly but steadily from a Croat to the shin, and there were no fireworks. You already knew you were so in love with him it hurt; he already knew he would be so in love with you it hurt, if only he would let himself. There was no romance. There was tongue, and distraction, and desperation, and bruises the following morning.

You never even stood a chance.

-

the world is burning the world is burning _the world is burning_ your throat is burning but that's just the alcohol your lungs are burning you can't tell if that's the alcohol or the smoke can you die from smoke inhalation oh yeah of course you can well at least you'll die drunk that's one plus-

someone is shouting your name

someone is shouting your name

Someone is screaming your name. They sound familiar. 

They sound panicked.

You can't breathe.

Someone is still screaming your name. You try to scream back. You can't make a sound. Your throat is burning. You can't breathe. You can't see. Everything is smoke, everything is fire, everything is burning and you can't breathe you can't breathe _you can't breathe_ -

Someone is lifting you up.

You try to stand. Your legs betray you.

Someone is whispering your name, shaking you, you still don't know who it is, they might want to kill you. You think there are a lot of people who want to kill you. You try to pull away, your arms aren't listening to your desperate instructions either, everything is still burning and you still can't breathe and you are being carried. 

Someone is carrying you, through a door and down a corridor and into fresh air, or as fresh as air can get nowadays.

You feel safe. You are so, so tired, and your eyelids are betraying you, and you are safe, and you can almost breathe, and so you sleep.

-

"You're an idiot."

You blink. Blink. Blink.

You're in Enjolras' cabin. You think. There are certainly enough books.

...Why are you in Enjolras' cabin?

You open your mouth to ask, but instead you double over coughing.

There is a sigh, to your left. You turn your head, and are met by the sight of one golden-haired fearless leader, looking just as resigned about you as always.

"You're an idiot." He repeats. "The building was on fire."

You wince.

You go to speak, but all that comes out is another coughing fit. Your throat burns. You wonder if the flames used you as a getaway vehicle and have taken up camp in your lungs, as he hands you a bottle of water and you make a vain attempt at extinguishing them.

This time, you manage words.

"Tired." You tell him, with a shrug. "Didn't see the point in moving. Seemed poetic. Everything's always burning, was bound to happen eventually."

Something in his eyes hardens. You struggle not to look away.

You hate it when he looks at you like that. Like you're a lost cause, except somehow, he only just realised.

Really. He should know better by now, surely.

"You'd be missed." He points out, voice as hard and unforgiving as his eyes. You shrink away from him. For some reason, this softens him. "Christ, R, do I really need to say it? Of course you'd be missed. We need you. _I_ need you."

You swallow. It burns. There isn't anymore water, though, so you choke back the whimper.

He sighs again. "It's bad enough, with Jehan and Marius. We couldn't help losing them. You're not killi-" He stutters, apparently unable to get the words out. Huh. "I'm not letting you die. Got it? Not if there's a chance in hell I can stop it. We _need_ you."

You blink at him. 

"Oh."

-

When you are lying awake, completely sober for once (because a near-death experience, apparently, is a reason _not_ to drink, instead of a reason _to_ drink. Because he wouldn't let you get up, and he wouldn't get you any alcohol. Because he always looks three times as disappointed when you're drunk), him sleeping soundly by your side, you run back over what he'd said.

' _I_ need _you_.'

You don't think you believe him.

It goes against everything you'd thought, every single thing you'd concluded about him and yourself and this fragile, broken thing you were cultivating. You are in love with him; he is in love with the idea of hope. You would die for him; he would die for you, the same way he would die for anyone, given the right opportunity. You would die without him; he would get by just fine.

Except, apparently, he wouldn't.

You wonder how you did it. How you finally tricked him into believing you were someone worth anything, someone worth worrying over, someone worth grieving for. 

You wonder if you should correct him.

It's not fair. It's not fair to him, to make him waste so much time and energy on someone like you. There are more important things, more important people. You are not worthy. You have never been worthy. You still aren't sure why he keeps you around at all, let alone keeps you so damn close.

' _I_ need _you_.'

Something has gone wrong here.

He's confused. He's finally cracked. He's ill. He's feverish. You were dreaming. You were hallucinating.

You did die in that fire, and this is Heaven.

He stirs beside you, just a little. Shifts his weight, makes a low noise. Doesn't wake up. He looks so fucking beautiful like this, just like he always does, perfect and holy and you shouldn't be allowed to look at him, you are poison and you are going to ruin him, why is he letting you get so close? How can he bear it, touching something like you, something so broken and tainted and God, you are going to get him killed.

He is going to get himself killed, trying to save you. You do not deserve saving. You do not deserve this. You do not deserve him.

If he does need you, if he isn't just delusional, then he will have to learn not to, because you can't allow this. You can't kill him. You could never live with yourself if you got him killed, if you killed him, if you lived and he died because he's convinced that's a fair trade.

You resolve to set him straight in the morning.

-

The end, similarly, can be placed at one of three points.

The first is, of course, the world burning. Can't get much more of an end than an apocalypse.

The second is your first kiss. The beginning of a relationship, if you can call mutual possessive tendencies, regular fucking and a co-dependency bordering on suicidal a relationship. The beginning of their downfall. The beginning of the end. 

The third isn't even a Croat attack. It's a fucking gang.

A _gang_ , of all things, who roll into your camp late one night (or early one morning, depending on perspective) guns blazing, looking to pick a fight, start a fire or steal something.

Enjolras goes out to send them packing, because of course he does. You follow, because you always do.

The gang's aim is better than either of you were expecting.

There is a gunshot. Another, another. A beat of silence. Another. A red stain, spreading across Enjolras' shirt. Another, spreading across his jeans.

( _Shit_ ).

A rounds worth of bullets, all buried inside the gang. You weren't even aware you were holding a gun.

Everything falls silent. 

"Grantaire-" He gasps, and you are at his side, just like always, where else would you be? "Fuck, R, it _hurts_."

You smile weakly. It feels more like a grimace. "I'd offer to get some painkillers, but you can't honestly expect me to leave your side right now, can you?"

"No." Enjolras says, laughing bitterly as he shakes his head. "No, of course not. Don't even think about it. Stay right here. Please."

"Of course. Fuck, of course I will. Like you could keep me away."

He offers you a weak smile. More of a grimace, though you can tell he's trying. It's hard to be genuine when you're bleeding out; you don't blame him.

Silence falls. 

There's much you could say. 

(About love, about sacrifice, about devotion. About how unfair this is. How much you're going to miss him, how you can't function without him, how you hate him for leaving you behind like this. About love, love, love, it has always been love. You've never said it out loud, but it has always been love. It has always, _always_ been him).

You don't say anything. 

He knows it all anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

If he's a god - and oh, he is, he is, he is holy, he is mighty, he is purpose given life - then this is your creation story.

On the first day, the world burned.

It was not him who set it alight. It set itself alight. This was always going to happen.

On the second day, he rose from the ashes. He refused to burn. He refused to stand by and let anyone else burn. He was going to save the world from itself with the power of his determination alone. He is holy. He can do anything.

On the third day, he begins to rebuild.

He does not rest.

-

His fingers are twisted through your hair, his mouth tastes like desperation (just like always), and his nails catch on your scalp and you vaguely remember a time you could distinguish between pain and pleasure. You can't anymore. Now, it all just burns.

 _Find what you love and let it kill you_.

You mouth the words - someone else's words, because when have your own ever been any good, when have you ever been any good, when have you ever been worthy of him - into his skin and let him pretend they're sweet nothings. 

He is going to get himself killed.

One way or another, he is going to die.

You would and will follow him anywhere, everywhere, to the ends of the earth ( _I search for your face, for the one who laid all of our beauty to waste..._ ), to Hell, to death. 

( _ ~~Strange how we all just got used to the blood~~_ ).

He is going to get himself killed.

You will follow him anywhere.

 _Find what you love and let it kill you_.

You love him. You love him more than you have words for, you love him so much it doesn't need words, you don't want words, why would you want words when you have him, you love him, you love him, you love him so much it _burns_.

He is going to kill you.

His nails scratch lines down your back, your teeth bite into his shoulder, he groans quietly into the crook of your neck, it burns, it all burns. You mouth words you refuse to voice out loud into his skin and you are on fire, you are burning, it burns, this is going to be the death of you. 

He is going to be the death of you.

 _Find what you love and let it kill you_.

( _ ~~I fight a war I may never see won...~~_ )

-

Some days, you cannot bring yourself to touch him.

He accuses you of distancing yourself, of detaching, of withdrawing. You, generally, laugh in his face - and it stings, of course it does, but the alcohol helps, when you are drunk you can allow yourself to say these things and he can blame it on the drink and you can all pretend it didn't hurt come morning - because oh, of course _he_ accuses you of distance.

He, golden God, king of the underworld, who controls his emotions with an iron fist and does not let himself be happy and exists on the wrong side of a very tall wall. 

Some days, you do not have the energy to scale that wall. Some days, you cannot bring yourself to touch him.

( _You're right next to me, but I need an airplane_ ).

Some days, you waste precious charcoal on sketches you are going to loathe in the morning. Some days, you drink and drink and drink, until you can no longer taste him in your mouth, until you can no longer think straight, until you can no longer remember the way he looked at you when you tried to lean in for a kiss. Some days, you have not got the energy to drag yourself over hot coals just to watch him pull away. Some days, you cannot bring yourself to look at him, let alone touch him.

He is on the wrong side of a very tall wall.

You do not tell him this. You are sick of shouting. Your voice is hoarse, your throat burns, you need another drink. You do not have the energy for this.

You are not star-crossed lovers. There is no banishment, no dagger, no vial of not-quite-poison. He is not comparing you to a rose and you are not going to be there in the morning. You are not going to prove anything to anyone with the stupidity, the ferocity, the self-destructive tendencies of your love. The war will continue if, when, after you stab yourself in the stomach.

( _Funny how the cracks don't seem to show_ ).

He accuses you of distancing yourself. You laugh, remind him of the words he spat at you and the way you flinched, tell him that that is the whole damn point.

( _ ~~Funny how the distance learns to grow~~_ ).

You, despite the flames, despite the burning, are cold without him. You drink and drink and drink and hide your traitorous fingers, aching for the feel of his skin, underneath charcoal smudges and it stings, just like always, but you have not got the energy to drag yourself over hot coals today. He pulled away, and you need to convince yourself you have forgotten it, forgiven him, you can no longer taste him in your mouth. 

You do not tell him any of this.

He can blame it on the drink. 

And, come morning, you can all pretend it didn't hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, the 'star-crossed lovers' paragraph was a romeo&juliet reference.


	4. Chapter 4

It's nearly spring when Cosette and Marius first appear.

Later, that strikes you as more than coincidence. At the time, you're mostly thinking about two more mouths to feed, two more beds to find, two more graves to dig. Can you spare the food, the space, the bullets?

It looks like you're going to. It looks like you have to.

There is a line of dried blood down Cosette's neck and Marius is limping and they both look half-starved. They come begging mercy, shelter, anything, anything at all, please. _Please_.

Combeferre makes them a whole vat of soup, and Courfeyrac makes them up a bed in his cabin, and you wander over when they are settled and ask them about their journey, because you know what it's like, travelling cross-country through somewhere you can hardly call a country anymore, dodging bullets and knives and starvation and cold. Cosette talks of Chicago, where they came from, of the riots and the fires and the soldiers on every corner killing anything they see move; "They didn't- they didn't care, if it was a Croat or a civvie. They just kept shooting. Laughing, making a game out of it, bang after bang after bang and children screamed and people cried and they still didn't _stop..."_

Marius doesn't say much, leaning into Cosette like he doesn't even know he's doing it, like he can't help it, so entwined with her he's started to forget where he ends and she begins. Being someone's only hope, only companion, only light in such a dark, dark world will do that to you. It's not the kind of thing you come back from. 

Within four days, it's like they've always been here. Cosette has dug a sewing kit out of God knows where, and is patiently mending clothes, and teaching everyone else to mend clothes, and using it as an excuse to not talk about the way her hands shake and her eyes glaze over sometimes, staring at a point far off in the horizon that only she can see. Marius is always, always, always beside her, fingers laced together or an arm around her waist or letting her lean against his chest, as if the only thing keeping him alive is his connection to her. He doesn't say much, or do much, though he's perfectly content to see a task through, no matter what it is, if someone offers it to him. He's surprisingly good at fixing electronics. 

Neither of them say much, but, well. Not much of anyone says much of anything anymore, apart from Courfeyrac, whose lips would probably persist in moving even when his voice has left him completely, and Jehan, who borrows other people's words in a desperate bid to fill the silence, lift the mood, make someone smile. Silence is a gift and a curse and their new best friend, all rolled into one dark cloud that forever promises a storm. 

Later, you will wonder about foreshadowing, about coincidence, about the way Marius was drawn to Cosette like a moth to a flame. About the irony of it all, when the one good thing you have left is the one good thing that gets you killed. At the time, you're just glad they have each other. 

God knows what they'd be like otherwise. 

\- 

(Except it isn't just God, not now, because Marius is six feet under, Marius is decaying, Marius is in the ground just behind Cosette and Courfeyrac's cabin, Marius is a memory, Marius is dead. Marius is _dead_ , and you know _exactly_ what Cosette is like without him, and you hate it. You _hate_ it.) 

\- 

"London's burning, London's burning, fetch the engines, fetch the engines..." 

You sing to yourself, mostly under your breath, charcoal smeared across your fingers. You're in your cabin, and you have no idea where anyone else is, and you have no idea how long you've been drinking, and you're almost out of charcoal. 

You miss England. 

You don't know what state it's in, and damn your sentimentality, but you're worried. For your country, for your city, you never were much of a patriot but you watched the Queen tear apart her own grandson so yes, you're worried, you're worried sick. You don't know if it's burning, London's burning, fire fire, God but you bet it's ash. 

London was never the kind of city built to survive disasters. 

The last you'd heard, the Tube was choked full of bodies and the ravens had flown away and the Queen's Guard had started to turn on each other, turns out you can make them crack, you just need to give them the right incentive, and you don't hear anything, now. Not anymore. 

"R?" 

You look up. The door's been pushed open, and it creaks so loudly (Bahorel keeps whining at you to oil it, but why should you? Yes, it's loud enough to wake the dead; that's the fucking point, it's your own personal alarm system, it's going to save your life some day, you're sure of it), and Cosette is standing in the doorway. There's a knife in her hand and Marius' jacket over her shoulders and some twisted approximation of a smile on her face. You wave her in. 

"My darling Cosette!" You say, grinning at her. "What ever can I do for you, on this fine afternoon?" 

"Enjolras was worrying." She tells you, as she sits cross-legged on the floor beside you. There's a rip in her jeans that wasn't there yesterday. "Thinks you're moping, wallowing, you know how he gets." 

"Enjolras is the only one who isn't wallowing." You say, sighing. "Unless, of course, the obliviousness counts." 

Cosette attempts another smile. "Is there any vodka?" 

"For you? Always." 

You hand her the bottle. She drains almost half of it in one swallow. It's been three weeks, four days, eighteen hours and seven minutes since Marius died. In that time, you have heard Cosette, beautiful Cosette, previously so cheerful and positive and upbeat, you have heard her laugh exactly once. It was bitter and broken and not something you ever want to hear again, it made you shudder, you still shudder at the memory of it. 

"Bahorel, 'Parnasse, Enjolras and Courf just went out on a raid, into that town a few miles over, the one with Jehan's bookshop." Cosette informs you. Her voice is mostly emotionless, stating the facts and nothing else. You pretend you don't hear it crack on 'Jehan's'. "'Ferre, Eponine and Gav are baking. Joly, Bossuet and 'Chetta are asleep." 

And Marius is six feet under, not a stone's throw from this cabin. But she doesn't say that, and you don't say that, and no one ever says that, because if no one ever says it, then you can pretend it isn't true. Marius is out on a raid, Marius is sleeping, Marius is in the kitchens, Marius is still alive and Jehan is still alive and the world has not ended and everything is fine, everything is fine, _everything is fine_. 

Cosette hands you back the bottle. You drain the rest of it and reach for another. 

You miss your country. You miss your city. You miss your friends. 

You are nowhere near drunk enough for this. 

\- 

Cosette without Marius is like the sky without stars. Beautiful, of course, but for all the wrong reasons, and nothing compared to what she once was. What she could be. Beautiful, of course, but so, so dark, so empty, getting lost in her own infinity, in her own darkness. Beautiful, somehow, despite everything. 

Courfeyrac without Jehan is like static on the radio, the space between two stations. The echo of music, the memory of music, nothing close to music. The space between joy and despair. He has become a tightrope walker, every day a balancing act, and you know, with a sickening kind of logic that leaves such an acidic taste in your mouth, that one day, you are all going to watch him fall. He has no safety net. He has no music. He has no purpose. He is the space between, he is static, he is nothing close to anything. You didn't think anything could rob him of his words, but then, you always try not to think about people dying. 

You without Enjolras are more of a whiskey bottle with a bitter smile than a whole person. You are not whole. All of the best parts of you are six feet under. 

The three of you have become some kind of twisted club, a trio, a band of widows in a world of widows. You are attracted to each other like moths to a flame, regardless of how intimately you already know the loving caress of fire across your skin. You take solace in flames. You take solace in understanding. You understand what it is to walk over hot coals, only to discover the only thing waiting for you on the other side is yet more hot coals. 

Grief burns under foot. 

Grief tastes faintly of lighter fluid. 

Grief tastes mostly of ash. 

Nowadays, everything tastes mostly of ash. 

You move into Courfeyrac and Cosette's cabin, move into Courfeyrac's bed, because even if no one can replace Enjolras, you are incapable of sleeping alone. You wake screaming from nightmares - gunshots ringing in your eyes, Enjolras' unseeing eyes, the callouses on your hands from the shovel and the dirt underneath your fingernails and you have been digging this grave for hours now - and try to stop screaming when you remember it isn't just a dream, it's your life now. Waking nightmare. Living nightmare. 

You take it in turns to wake screaming from nightmares, to cling to each other, to whisper calming words and try not to trip over the elephant in the room even as it takes aim and fires a bullet through your heart, your brain, your eyes, your half-built recovery, bang bang bang, your life revolves around gunshots. This began in gunshots and it is pockmarked with bullet holes and it will end in gunshots. Bang bang bang. 

Courfeyrac dreams of Jehan, of waking up beside a Croat wearing Jehan's face, of everything being fine and everyone being alive and Jehan not know who he is. Cosette dreams she died instead of Marius, dreams she is the ghost and Marius is grieving and she screams at him and he can't hear her, dreams of a world where Marius didn't die and they never left Chicago and everything is fine and then Marius crumples into ash under her fingertips. 

You cling to each other. 

You recount your dreams in a monotone, because if you talk about it, then it doesn't weigh as much, doesn't taste as bad, a pain shared is a pain halved and so you make grieving a group effort. Share the weight, the burden, pretend that makes it easier. Pretend this is ever going to get easier. 

You dream of gunshots and burning and forgetting Enjolras, forgetting what he sounded like, looked like, hoped like, forgetting why you loved him, forgetting you loved him, and you wake up and it is already starting to come true. You cannot remember the way his hair looked in the sunshine, the way he walked when he was angry, the song he always hummed under his breath when he was thinking. 

You cling to each other. Pretend this is getting easier. Pretend one day, you might breathe easily again. Pretend you can remember what it feels like to be whole. 

You are a band of widows in a world of widows, you are grieving, you are standing shredded in pieces, blood-stained and riddled with bullet holes and waiting to die. You are walking over hot coals. 

All the best parts of you are six feet under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> question: i want to write how this group of people found each other, but i'm not sure i can do it well (or at least, how i want to do it) if i limit myself to only grantaire's POV. should i delve into other people's POVs and write some introduction/beginnings, or should i stick to grantaire?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we return to our regularly scheduled run-on sentences and rambling thought processes. (some day, i am going to stop writing about grantaire post-enjolras' death and focus on all that other plot i have planned. today is not that day.)

You want to commemorate the sound of his strangled happiness, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, the feel of his skin under your worshipping fingers, he is your god and you are in awe and you need something to remember this by.

Already, time is slipping through your fingers. You long for a camera. He is splayed out beneath you, his hair a halo, his eyes half-closed, he is so beautiful and you long for a camera. He bites your lip, and you forget about the camera in favour of a litany of profanity. You long for the adequate kind of language to describe the sound of his strangled happiness.

He is your god. He is holy. You don't understand why you're allowed to touch him, but you're not about to question it, not when your name is falling gracelessly from his lips, not when you have finally succeeded in bringing him down a peg and he is somehow no less holy for it, not when this is still happening and you have yet to wake up and he is _so beautiful_.

(You are going to lose this.)

You want to commemorate the sounds he makes, the way he looks, the marks on his skin. You want to immortalise him, want to shout about him from the rooftops, want the whole world to know that he is beautiful and he is brilliant and he is _yours_.

(You are going to lose him.)

You need something to remember this by.

-

In this room, there is too much past. There is so much past, and you can't breathe, there is too much past for you to breathe properly, it's suffocating, you're choking on it. She asks you why you insist on sleeping in here and you can't answer, because you don't know, because you do know, because you can't say it, because you can't speak, because you're choking. In this room, there are books and paintings and empty bottles and an empty bed and you're choking, and you can't look at it, and you want to set it all on fire, but you can't bring yourself to leave and smoke doesn't make it any easier to breathe and if you burn alive, she'll be so sad. She's only just started to smile again, you won't do that to her.

You can't remember the last time you stayed alive for yourself.

You can't remember the last time you breathed easily.

You can't remember the last time you smiled.

In this room, there is no smiling. There's too much past for you to smile. 

You can't remember the last time you were sober. It's easier to die when you're drunk, slow reflexes and sloppy hands and shaky aim, but it's easier to drink in this room. This room full of so much past it chokes you, this room with it's hands wrapped around your neck like a threat, like a promise. In this room, there are empty bottles and emptying bottles and no smiling and you, drunk enough that this has just started to be bearable, that you have just started to trick yourself into thinking this is bearable, this is not bearable, but you are drinking anyway, because it never hurts to try.

You do not kill yourself, because it would ruin her. You do not smile, because you have convinced yourself it would ruin him or his memory or his ghost. You do not stop drinking, because it would ruin you.

It's a delicate balance.

In this room, there is the memory of him, sun-warmed and sex-slowed and smiling, sprawled across this bed you can no longer bring yourself to look at. There is the memory of his voice and his touch and his breathing, his pulse, your head on his chest, and through the window, you can see his grave. In this room, there are too many memories to count, to breathe around, to breathe through, you cannot remember the last time you breathed easily.

You can remember the last time he breathed easily.

You wish to God you couldn't.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i officially have no control over what my characters do romance-wise. 
> 
> (and, with this update, we break 10k. lolwhut.)

"Grantaire!"

You look up.

You are walking from your cabin to the kitchen. A woman is standing under Jehan's tree, Combeferre beside her. She is not familiar, not in the slightest, not one single violent pink hair on her head rings a bell, and yet she's looking at you expectantly. 

"You're Grantaire?" The woman asks. You nod, walk over, unconsciously let one hand rest on the knife in your pocket. "I have a message for you."

"You... do?"

Messages are not uncommon, so to speak; there are a scattering of camps around, and a scattering of people willing to bike around between them, delivering messages and transporting supplies. You just don't know anyone who isn't already living a stone's throw away who'd want to say anything to you. 

The woman nods. "Montparnasse is looking for you. Being quite insistent about it."

Scratch that previous statement. 

You do know someone. 

"'Parnasse is alive?"

You'd just assumed he was dead. 

-

There is an unspoken rule, not to speak of Before. 

Before is always in unspoken capitals. It's a clear distinction, Before. Before the world went to hell. Before civilisation collapsed. Before almost everyone died.

Nowadays, everyone has lost someone. Everyone is grieving, everyone is broken, everyone is a murderer and a widow and an orphan and no one wants to talk about it. 

You know about Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's Before, but only because you were there. Only because you had front row seats, got to watch firsthand as Courfeyrac's parents were crushed to death trying to get out of the city and Enjolras' sister was shot and Combeferre shot his newly-Croat grandmother. 

In return, they were there when you lost Montparnasse. 

-

"He's looking for you." The woman replies. "Been sending out scouts like nobody's business. You his brother or something?"

"Or something." You agree. "Do you know where he is?"

"Up near the border, last I heard."

Several hundred miles away. Of course. 

You blink, go to run a hand through your hair, realise it's the hand still clenched tight around your knife, the hand with the finger with the ring, and drop it back into your pocket hastily. You let out a breath. 

Montparnasse is alive. 

Right. 

Okay. 

...Fuck. 

-

"I am going to kill that son of a bitch!"

Your throat hurts from shouting. You kick the wall again, like that's going to help any, just like it helped the last three times you did it, because everything about this is pointless. Everything about everything is pointless, but right now, right here, this just takes the fucking cake. If pointlessness was fatal, you would be stone cold, six feet under, dead as a doornail, dead as you feel like you should be.

It's three days after Queen. 

It's eight days after Montparnasse left for California, to visit his might-as-well-be-a-sister Eponine.

You have no idea where he is. 

You have no idea if he's alive. 

You have some idea about the state California's in. 

You really wish you didn't. 

-

Two weeks after the first message, the woman returns. 

You find out her name is Amelia. 

You find out Montparnasse is making his way to you. 

Amelia doesn't know where he is, how he is, or how long he's going to be, just that he's coming. You want to shout at her, scream at her, demand answers you damn well know she can't give, but you don't. 

You pick an argument with Enjolras, pick a fight with Bahorel, and drink your way through two bottles of whiskey. 

You scream at the heavens. 

You let Jehan braid flowers into your hair. 

You twist the ring round and round and round your finger, metal warming under your touch.

You pick another argument with Enjolras. 

You drink. You drink. You come running when Feuilly screams and you carry him back into the camp and you help Joly stitch his leg up and your hands do not shake. You drink yourself to sleep and you do not dream of Montparnasse's bones sticking out of his skin at all the wrong angles just like Feuilly's shin, Montparnasse's blood leaving a trail across the ground, Montparnasse dying in your arms. 

You drink. 

Two more weeks pass. 

You drink and drink and drink and you let Jehan persuade you into a visit to his town and you are ambushed by a gang. You are stabbed in the calf. 

You are asleep, your leg bandaged and your alcohol confiscated and your entire world tinged red with pain, when Montparnasse arrives. 

-

"He's dead."

"We don't know that."

"We don't know he's alive, either. And, come on, let's be realistic here. Which one is more likely?"

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. 

"He's a fighter, you've said it yourself-"

"He's stupid, is what he is." You interrupt. "He's reckless and stupid and far too cocky, and he'll risk himself three times over to keep Eponine safe, and he's in _California_ , and he's dead. He's _dead_. No doubt about it. No chance in hell."

You pause, stare at Enjolras expectantly, and take another swig from your beer bottle. Enjolras remains silent. The silence drags on. 

Montparnasse is dead. You know it, can feel it, have never been more certain of anything in your life. You've already grieved. You're sick of talking about it. 

"About the generator, then." Enjolras says finally, resigned. 

-

When you wake up, you're expecting a pounding headache, a sour taste in your mouth, and pain like a wildfire in your leg. 

You are not expecting a Montparnasse sitting on a chair beside your bed, wearing that fucking top hat and reading a fucking book. 

You sit up. Well, you try to. You don't get very far; you were right about your leg. 

"You're awake." Montparnasse says, setting the book on the floor and sounding relieved. 

"You're alive." You reply. You don't sound relieved. You aren't relieved. Mostly, you're angry.

He gives you a look. "You really think I'd get killed? You have that little faith in me?"

"I have that little faith in everything, and you damn well know it." 

There's a beat. You stare at each other. 

He's got a scar on his jaw that he didn't have Before. He's wearing a leather jacket, black skinny jeans and a thigh holster, and Christ, you could have predicted that. His hair is longer than he likes it, longer than you're used to, and you itch to run your hands through it. 

His ring is glinting silver on his finger.

Fuck, you've missed him. 

Another beat, and then he raises an eyebrow and you quirk your lips and suddenly his tongue is in your mouth, and he tastes exactly the same and his hair is soft under your fingers and holy fucking _hell_ how you've missed him. Missed him until it burned, ached, until you couldn't remember doing otherwise, until it was as natural and easy and normal as breathing but that didn't make it any less painful. 

He's the one to pull back, pressing you down when you try to chase his lips. "You're injured."

"I thought you were _dead_ , you bastard." You growl, impatient and straining upwards. 

'Parnasse laughs. "Ah, R, I love you too."

-

"Did you love him?"

It's almost four in the morning. You and Jehan have been exchanging secrets over several bottles of whiskey for almost five hours now, sprawled out underneath the oak tree in one corner of the camp that Jehan has claimed as his own.

Courfeyrac is asleep. Enjolras is angry. There are better places to be, better ways to spend your time, but sometimes, you need this. Jehan understands. In a past life, you and Jehan would have been Romantics together, killing yourselves slowly in all of the best ways, making it into an art form.

"Who?" You ask. Jehan is being cryptic. You're too drunk for cryptic.

"I don't know, you never talk about it." Jehan replies. He nods at the ring on your finger. "You lost someone. Before, you were in love with someone, and now they're dead. I can see it, in the way you walk. You stink of grief."

"If you've got it all figured out, why ask me?" You grumble, stare at the sky so you don't have to look at Jehan's knowing face, pretend you aren't twisting the ring around your finger, pretend you aren't a jumbled mess of nervous habits and alcohol and grief and little else.

"I could be wrong." Jehan says. "I'm not, but I could be. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

You grin at him, half honest amusement and half bitter sarcasm. "You always make me uncomfortable, darling. I've gotten used to it." A pause. It's weighted, full of all the things you don't like saying out loud, don't like the way they sit on your tongue, don't like the taste they leave in your mouth. Honest things. Bitter things. Heavy things. "I was. Still am. It feels- he wouldn't want me to quit loving him, just because he isn't around to hear about it. He'd- he'd just want me to be healthy about it." You roll your eyes at the stars, just drunk enough to entertain thoughts of heaven and hallelujah and him, watching you from above. "Always was too optimistic for his own damn good."

Jehan doesn't say anything.

There isn't anything to say.

After another heavy pause, he passes you the whiskey.

-

The next time you wake up, Montparnasse has gone, and has been replaced by Enjolras. 

Enjolras, who can't seem to decide if he wants to stare at you in relief, anger or concern. Enjolras, who has bags under his eyes that look like someone carved them out with a chisel. Enjolras, who has no right looking so damn attractive when he probably hasn't slept in four whole days. 

"Eponine and her little brother Gavroche are here as well." Enjolras tells you. "They were travelling together, with Montparnasse."

You wait a beat, but no more information is provided. You wait another minute or so, sigh, then ask, "What do you want?"

"If you want me to leave, just say so." Enjolras replies, looking... not hurt. Not surprised, either. Resigned, that's it. Looking resigned. 

"Of course I don't want you to leave." You say, fixing him with a look. "I find your presence remarkably comforting. But you're burning to ask me _something_ , so hurry up and ask it already."

"...Montparnasse." Enjolras says, eventually. 

"That's not a question."

Enjolras groans. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

You stay stubbornly silent. 

"You and Montparnasse, that's the fucking question." Enjolras sighs out, after a minute or so of staring at some point above your head. "He was your boyfriend. And you never officially broke up. And you still wear that ring. And I wanted to know if- I want to know what's happening."

You roll your eyes. 

"I've been in love with 'Parnasse for almost three years, yes." You agree. "And I spent one of those convinced he was dead. Despite this, of course, I still love him."

Something peculiar is happening to Enjolras' face. 

"But times have changed." You continue, trying not to think about how, exactly. "And I'm not the person I was Before, and neither is he. And I'm in love with you, and I have been for near on a decade now, and he knows that. He's always known that. He wasn't here, and you were, and he knows that." You pause to pull your face into some vague approximation of a smile. "And, who knows? When you're dead, we might get back together. If I don't kill myself immediately, that is."

"Don't say things like that." Enjolras snaps.

"Not talking about it doesn't make it any less true." You reply, but you let it go, bite your tongue, don't pass further comment. You were stabbed in the leg. You really aren't in the mood to pick a fight right now.

Enjolras sighs. "'Chetta and Courf made brownies. Gavroche and Eponine want to meet you, but Joly wants to ask you first. Are you up to strangers and chocolate?"

"Sure, fine, whatever. Might as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: california is the only state where the police didn't even try. they just put the whole state into quarantine, and let the croats win. california is a ghost state. everyone either got out or got killed. (most people were killed).

**Author's Note:**

> poems referenced, in order of appearance: 'there is life after survival' is 'human the death dance' by buddy wakefield, 'call 911...' is 'we are emergencies' by buddy wakefield, 'what would you do if you were going to die? how did you ever convince yourself you weren't?' is from [a softer world](http://asofterworld.com/index.php?id=891) (totally counts as poetry, ssh), 'nothing now can ever come to any good. pack up the moon, dismantle the sun' is 'funeral blues' by w. h. auden, and 'find what you love and let it kill you' is charles bukowski.
> 
> songs referenced, in order of appearance: 'i search for your face, for the one who laid all of our beauty to waste/strange how we all just got used to the blood/i fight a war i may never see won' is 'cold as it gets' by patty griffin, and 'you're right next to me, but I need an airplane/funny how the cracks don't seem to show/funny how the distance learns to grow' is 'china' by tori amos. (if this fic has a playlist, then both of those are on it).
> 
> 'There is only so much he can take from you; you are not infinite, in this moment you are not infinite, you are never infinite and there are no perks to this and all of the flowers are dead. Stop crying.' is a very convoluted, mangled 'perks of being a wallflower' reference. i, um, apologise on behalf of grantaire's narrative/thought process.
> 
> i am [here](http://idoubtthereforeimightbe.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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